


Behind Locked Doors

by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Broken Friendships, Broken Stiles Stilinski, Canon-Typical Violence, Derek Comes Back, Derek Hale Returns, Derek Hale Returns to Beacon Hills, Don't copy to another site, Emotionally Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Gen, Hurt, Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Injured Stiles Stilinski, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, Misunderstandings, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Serious Injuries, Stiles Comes Back, Stiles Stilinski Returns, Stiles Stilinski Returns to Beacon Hills, Stitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24957499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wasterella/pseuds/isthatbloodonhisshirt
Summary: Derek often showed up in his room—at least he used the fuckingdoornow that he knew where the spare key was hidden—and he couldn’t escape people in general in the Jeep since they could see him through the window. His dad was home, and when he wasn’t, there was always the risk of other people showing up.His bathroom, on the other hand? No, his bathroom was a small room with no window in the middle of the house with a lockable door and no judgement. He could sit in the bathroom for hours, and no one would question it. Was he watching porn on his phone and jerking off? Was he taking a massive dump? Did he have constipation? Was he stitching up the millionth injury of the month in private? Who knew? No one but Stiles!The locked door at his back felt like a safety net for him sometimes. In the bathroom, he didn’t have to pretend. He didn’t have to smile and wave people’s words off, insist he was fine, laugh and act like everything was okay. In the bathroom, he was allowed to sit on the floor, his expression tight, and his body falling apart on him.
Comments: 59
Kudos: 1119





	Behind Locked Doors

**Author's Note:**

> I was in a weird mood today and this idea has been in my WIP folder for a long time, so I figured I'd crank it out today. 
> 
> Hope y'all are having a good weekend -throws confetti-

Derek was staring at him. That was making him very uncomfortable, because Derek didn’t usually stare at him. Not unless it was in an attempt to get Stiles to fuck off and go away, or in an attempt to wear him down into doing what he wanted. It usually worked too. Well no, not really. Stiles usually just pitied him enough to leave when he was _really_ annoying him, and when Derek asked him for favours, well, they were friends. Stiles did favours for his friends. 

Well, sort of friends. They _had_ been friends. He didn’t really know _what_ they were now, but... he still cared about him, so that constituted friendship in his eyes. 

But this was a different kind of staring. It was calculating, and suspicious, and it almost seemed like Derek was trying to peer into his very soul right now. 

Stiles didn’t need that in his life. His soul was dark and muddled, considering his past possession by the Nogitsune, so he really needed Derek to stop. 

Also, breathing hurt. It was pulling at his side and he had to work really hard to keep the wince off his face. He felt like various muscles were twitching in their attempts to hold back every wince, and it was getting a bit exhausting. He wanted this night to be over already so he could go home and curl up into a ball in peace. 

Maybe not curl up into a ball, that’d probably hurt more. 

He made sure to ignore Derek’s staring, keeping his eyes on Scott while he went on and on about—actually, Stiles had stopped paying attention. Probably nothing for him to bother with anyway. They’d defeated the most recent big bad, they all had early mornings tomorrow, and it was late. Stiles wanted him to just finish up and dismiss them. 

Sometimes being in a pack sucked. Had to listen to the Alpha. Wasn’t even fair, Stiles got only the bad parts of being in a pack, none of the good ones. 

His side really hurt. Like, a lot. He wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to be able to hold out. Scott needed to finish his fucking pep-talk already. 

Derek was still staring at him, but thankfully, Scott seemed just about done with his rah-rah speech. He looked around the room to make sure no one had anything further to add, then nodded once and called the pack meeting to an end. 

Everyone else stood immediately, clearly eager to head out. Stiles was eager, too. Like, _so_ eager. He really wanted to leave. 

But if he stood too fast, his side was going to scream at him, so he needed to watch himself, stand slowly, and keep his expression neutral. Or bored, maybe. Relieved? He didn’t know, but anything other than the wince he’d been fighting back all evening. 

Just as he’d levered himself off the couch, Derek was in front of him, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Stiles just gave him one of his usual, “What?” looks and started past him but Derek shifted to block his way. Scott was lingering by the door, like he’d noticed something was going on and wanted to know what it was. Scott liked being informed, it was a good Alpha trait. He didn’t always do anything with the information, but he liked _having_ it. 

“What’s that smell?” 

“Smell?” Stiles asked, mildly offended. “What, my hygiene not good enough for you, now? It’s not my fault you have a bloodhound nose, you know.” 

Derek’s eyes narrowed further, arms coming up to cross over his chest. It pulled his shirt tight, exposing all of his muscles, and Stiles really didn’t need to be thinking inappropriate thoughts about the guy who wished he’d been murdered years ago. 

“Are you wearing cologne?” 

“It’s my new bodywash,” Stiles said. Which was true, too. He’d bought a new bodywash a while back when his usual brand was out at the store, and when Scott had admitted that it was so overpowering it blocked all Stiles’ chemosignals, he’d stocked up on it for a rainy day. 

He’d had a lot of rainy days lately, if he was honest. He just hadn’t seen much of Derek since then because he was out of town for a while. Derek did that sometimes, fucked off without telling anyone. Stiles always had to text him incessantly to get a response _just_ to confirm he hadn’t been kidnapped by a Dragon and fed to some Selkies or whatever.

Really, one never knew with Derek! 

“I don’t like it,” Derek informed him. 

“Sucks to be you,” Stiles retorted.

Derek’s jaw worked, like he was grinding his teeth. “It hides your chemosignals. It’s not smart.” 

“It’s not smart hiding what I’m feeling from a group of Werewolves?” Stiles asked, eyebrows rising slightly. “Considering all you guys ever do is whine about me, I think this is a win on my side. Means you’ll leave me alone.” 

It was obvious Derek wanted to say something else, but he didn’t. He just kept glaring at Stiles like he was being annoying on purpose—which he sort of was—and then shifted his gaze down to glare angrily at Stiles’ chest. 

With the discussion clearly over, Stiles shifted around him, over-extending a bit and coughing to hide his hiss, then went to join Scott at the door. The two of them left together, walking down the dark steps from Derek’s loft to the exit. 

Derek’s place had always been the place for pack meetings. Even though he wasn’t Alpha anymore, it was just much easier to meet there than at Scott’s or Stiles’ place. For one thing, they didn’t have to worry about their parents showing up unexpectedly and berating them for doing dangerous things, and for another, Derek’s place was really big and kind of out of the way. No opportunity for _anyone_ to stop in unannounced, which was the ideal. 

Well, except Peter, but who knew where that fucker was these days.

Stiles started up his usual chatter with Scott while they headed down the stairs together, every step jarring his wounds and making him scream internally. He could wince at least, since he was behind Scott, which meant he couldn’t see his face. As long as he kept the pain from his voice, his friend would be none the wiser. 

Once they got outside, Scott bid him goodnight while heading for his motorbike and Stiles climbed carefully into the Jeep. The ride home was short, and he kept his right hand pressed lightly against his left side as if to stop it from hurting. He didn’t know why, but putting some pressure on the injuries helped them hurt less. 

Probably one of those psychosomatic things, he didn’t know. 

When he got home, the lights were off and the cruiser was gone, suggesting his dad was at work. That annoyed him since he knew for a _fact_ he wasn’t scheduled to work tonight, which meant he’d just gone in because he felt like he had to. His dad worked too much, he was going to kill himself once day, dammit.

Heading up the porch steps and into the house, he locked up behind himself and went up to the bathroom so he could shower and go to bed. He passed his room, hoping Derek wasn’t going to be showing up later like he sometimes did when he was in a bad mood, and went straight to the bathroom. 

Once he was locked behind the safety of a wooden door with a flimsy latch, he finally let his face fall and his shoulders sag. For a few minutes, he just stood there. He didn’t move an inch and all he did was breathe. In and out. In and out. Just for a few minutes, just enough time for him to remember what it was like not to have to keep up appearances. 

Stiles didn’t used to worry about this sort of thing. Honestly, he’d always been pretty open and honest about anything and everything. Well, with a few key exceptions, of course. But when it came to the Supernatural world and his pack, he knew everyone needed to have all the facts to make sure things would work out in the end. 

The past few years had been... challenging. A lot of things had gone wrong. People kept getting hurt, more dangerous monsters kept coming to town, Stiles had dropped out of the FBI, Derek had felt pressured to come back. Just... lots of bad shit had gone on. 

And that meant a lot of people were quick to anger. Easy to annoy. Stiles was still the only human in the pack, but he was also the only mostly-human member who still went out to fight. Sure, he and Lydia would both do their usual research thing, and Deaton would lend a hand with various items and information they needed, but when it came time to face down a big bad, they didn’t join the fray like Stiles did. 

Stiles still went out there with his trusty bat, still fought the good fight, still made sure to be a distraction so his friends didn’t get killed. It meant a lot of new scars added to his repertoire. He sometimes wondered what would happen when he died—from an attack or old age, it didn’t matter. The mortician would take one look at his scarred, naked form and honestly wonder what the flying fuck Stiles Stilinski had been doing with his life to look this way. 

But that was kind of the problem. Scott had always gotten annoyed in the past about Stiles getting hurt. About how he hated listening to Stiles whine about his injuries, because he shouldn’t be out with them in the first place _even though he’d saved Scott’s life countless times_. 

And whatever Scott did, Liam parroted. So suddenly two members of the pack were calling him a nuisance and an inconvenience when he was out there getting himself hurt, complaining about his injuries, slowing them down for the next few days while he healed like a _normal person_. 

Stiles hadn’t let it bother him at first. Of course not, because they didn’t mean anything bad by it, he knew he could get whiny and annoying when he was hurting so really, it wasn’t a big deal having them bitch at him for being a nuisance. 

That was until the rest of the pack slowly started to complain about it, too. Stiles was loud, and annoying, and he _always_ got hurt. The thing was, they _all_ always got hurt, but Stiles couldn’t heal in seconds like the rest of them. It was frustrating. And someone always had to help him when everything was over. Get him cleaned up, get him some First Aid supplies, help stanch the bleeding when the injuries were really bad. 

So of course, when Derek finally came back, things escalated. Every time Stiles got hurt, he got yelled at. He got called careless, and stupid, and suicidal. He got called _human_. 

It had never bothered him before, being human. He liked that he could do some of the cool human things the others couldn’t. But coming from Derek, it was almost like it made him... _less_. Like he was dirt under Derek’s shoe that he didn’t want to look at, or an annoying pet that had been left with him he didn’t even want to deal with. 

Last month was the final straw. 

Stiles had almost broken his arm from being tossed into a tree, and Derek had yelled at him so violently about it that Scott had actually moved between them, like he was worried Derek was about to attack his best friend. 

That was when Stiles realized this wasn’t going to work. He _was_ human, and the others didn’t want a human around, not really. Because humans were _fragile_ and couldn’t just get injured and bounce back immediately. 

So Stiles had gone home, re-evaluated everything, and decided that maybe he should just... hide it. His humanity. Maybe from now on, he should start using that bodywash that hid his chemosignals because it was so damn potent to Werewolves, and if he got hurt, he just wouldn’t say anything about it. 

It worked out for him. This past week while fighting off the last big bad, Stiles had gotten deep gashes in his side from the thing’s wicked claws, but nobody had noticed. They’d _barely_ smelled the blood, but he’d waved it off as just a scratch and nobody had argued or questioned it even as Stiles could feel said blood flowing freely down his side. 

Derek hadn’t been there, which helped because if he had been, even the smell of Stiles’ blood would’ve irked him, so it had worked out well. Stiles had just had to tell them all one time that he was fine, and they’d been happy to call it a night and head home. 

When he got back to the Jeep, he’d quickly pulled his emergency First Aid kit out and had managed to cover the wound enough to slow the bleeding until he got home. Then he’d gone to the bathroom, hidden behind his locked door, and had stitched himself up with shaky hands. It hadn’t been pretty, and it had definitely hurt like a motherfucker, but he’d done it and no one had been the wiser. 

He probably hadn’t done a great _job_ , because breathing hurt, but he didn’t know if that was because they were too tight or because that was how stitches in that area were supposed to feel. He’d wanted to talk to Melissa about it, but every time he tried Scott was around or she was busy working. 

Whatever, it’d been three days, and he hadn’t dropped dead yet, so it was probably a non-issue. 

Deciding he’d been standing there for long enough, Stiles slowly pulled his clothes off until he was standing in front of the mirror in his boxers. A lot of the bruises from the last attack had faded to a greeny-yellow colour, and he stared at the neat little square of gauze he’d taped down with medical tape before leaving the house. 

Touching it lightly, he was pleased to find there was no blood peeking through. It had bled a bit the first two days, but it looked like things were healing up well. He’d take the makeshift bandage off tomorrow to let the stitches air while he was working. 

Reaching under the sink, he pulled out a roll of duct tape and a cut-apart garbage bag, along with a pair of scissors. He’d been covering the bandage with a square of taped-down plastic while he showered to avoid getting anything wet. It had been working well for him the past two days, though taking the duct tape off afterwards _hurt_ like a bitch because it pulled at his skin and thus the stitches. 

But he had to use the duct tape, because everything else he’d tested on other parts of his body before settling on that had failed miserably at keeping water out. 

Moving slowly to get the new square of plastic on, he tested the tape to make sure all the ends were sealed and then stepped into the shower. He did his best not to raise his left arm, since it would pull at his stitches, and managed to get showered and dried off relatively quickly. 

Popping a few Tylenol before brushing his teeth, he procrastinated taking off the plastic sheet because he knew it would hurt. Once he got his pyjama bottoms on, having started leaving them on the hook in the bathroom, he stared at the duct tape, sighed, then slowly peeled it off. He would rather rip it off like a band-aid, but he’d done that _once_ and had almost blacked out, so definitely not doing that again. 

It was a very slow and annoying process, Stiles hissing and exhaling sharply every few seconds as the tape pulled his skin and the stitches, but he finally got the entire thing off and tossed it into the trash. Pulling on his nightshirt, he kicked his dirty clothes in the corner to be dealt with tomorrow, grabbed his phone, wallet and keys from the counter where he’d set them while undressing, and opened the bathroom door to head for his room. 

When he turned on the light, he only started _slightly_ at the sight of Derek sitting in his desk chair, slouching and seeming incredibly annoyed. 

For fuck’s sake, if Stiles’ entire being infuriated him, why the fuck did Derek bother coming to his house where Stiles was _clearly_ going to be? Really, this was all Derek’s own doing. He must be a masochist. 

Things had been a little tense for them since they’d both come back. Stiles wasn’t sure why, but he suspected it was because Derek blamed him for being forced to return to Beacon Hills when he’d managed to escape it. Which was stupid, because it wasn’t like Stiles had twisted his arm. They’d gone out for drinks the day Stiles had quit his internship at the FBI and he’d told Derek he was going home.

The things that had happened since his departure... well, it was clear Scott couldn’t do this without him. His best friend needed him, so he was coming back. He had a decent job working as a researcher for a company back in Washington that he’d managed to snag before leaving, so he wasn’t hurting on the money front. 

Derek had been furious with him. He’d insisted Stiles had _gotten out_. He’d managed to _escape_ from the Supernatural, live a normal life, probably be _happy_ , but he was throwing it away because of some stupid sense of loyalty to someone who didn’t deserve it. 

The conversation had only gone downhill from there, and Stiles left to head home a week later. He didn’t hear from Derek the few weeks he was back, which worried him because he wanted to make sure he was okay. And then one day, Stiles was shopping at the store, getting groceries and trying to decide what to make for himself and his dad for dinner, when there he was.

Derek Hale, walking through the store, buying himself some food. 

Stiles had been stunned, but Derek hadn’t stopped long to chat. He’d just bitten out that he’d decided if Stiles wanted to kill himself, the least he could do was help keep the others alive since this whole thing was kind of his fault in the first place.

Which it wasn’t, it was Peter’s, but Stiles wasn’t going to try to talk Derek off the cross. He’d spent years trying to help him lift that weight off his shoulders, and all it got him was snarked remarks and the occasional shove into a hard surface so he’d kind of given up on that front. 

That had been almost two years ago, and now they were... he didn’t know. They weren’t friends, but they weren’t _not_ friends, either. 

Like two people who’d once been really close, cared about each other, had fallen out, but didn’t know how to _stop_ caring about each other. It was weird, and uncomfortable, and Stiles hated it. 

Derek’s eyes narrowed when Stiles walked into his bedroom, but Stiles didn’t really afford him any of his time. He just moved to set his keys and wallet down and then plugged in his phone, ignoring that Derek was even there. 

“You used that bodywash again,” he said, as if Stiles wasn’t perfectly aware of this. 

“It’s the bodywash I have,” he informed him, turning to head back for the light. “You gonna spit it out so I can go to bed, or am I going to be sleep-deprived again?” 

“I don’t like it, stop using it.” 

“I must’ve missed the memo where I had to do as you said,” Stiles bit out, turning to Derek with one hand on the switch. “I like that bodywash. I’m not going to stop using it just because your little Werewolf nose is sensitive. You’re the one who broke into _my_ room. If you don’t want to smell it, then you can just leave.” 

“Stop being a child,” Derek snapped, surging to his feet. 

Stiles flinched unintentionally. He wasn’t scared of Derek—not anymore, at least—but he also knew he was injured and he couldn’t really afford to get shoved into walls or a dresser or something right now. 

Derek froze halfway across the room. Stiles couldn’t read the expression on his face, but it quickly twisted into something unfriendly before he scoffed and shook his head. 

“You’re being stupid. Chemosignals exist for a reason, and you blatantly trying to cover yours up is only going to make things worse for all of us.” 

“And why is that?” Stiles asked, but he kept his hand on the light switch, making it clear he didn’t intend to allow this conversation to go on for long. “Because then you can’t determine what I’m thinking from my scents? Yeah, welcome to being _human_.” He sneered the last word. 

“I’m not having this conversation with you while you’re acting like an idiot,” Derek said. When he moved forward again, he did so much more slowly than before, like he was trying to make it clear to Stiles he wasn’t moving to attack him.

That actually kind of stung, because Stiles wasn’t afraid of Derek, and he hated that the Werewolf seemed to think he was _weak_ and was _actually_ scared of him because he’d flinched. 

Stiles had many other things in his life to be scared of, Derek Hale was definitely not one of them. 

When Derek reached him, the two of them staring each other down, he just said, “I mean it. Stop using it.” 

“Don’t forget to lock up on your way out,” Stiles said in response. If Derek was going to use the spare key to break _in_ , then he sure as shit could lock the door on his way _out_. 

Derek’s expression darkened again, but just like back at the loft, he didn’t say anything further. He almost shouldered past Stiles out of the room, but Stiles knew him well enough to shift away before their shoulders connected and he shut his door on Derek’s ass when he was out of the room. 

Turning off the light, he went to his bed and climbed under the covers, rolling his eyes at the sound of the front door _slamming_ loud enough to probably wake all the fucking neighbours. 

Whatever, if Derek wanted to be a bratty fucking baby because he didn’t like not being able to smell all of Stiles’ _feelings_ , that was his problem. 

Like Stiles had said: Welcome to being fucking _human_. 

It sucked, didn’t it? 

* * *

Stiles felt like he couldn’t breathe. It felt like his lungs were on fire right now, and he couldn’t breathe. Pain lanced across his chest and back from the violent blow and he was positive his entire chest cavity had just been crushed. It was concaved in, he was literally dying right now. 

It took him a few terrifying seconds, but he finally managed to inhale enough oxygen into his lungs so that the suffocation diminished ever so slightly. He got one breath in. Then another. And another. Good, he was breathing. At least he wasn’t dying, though he’d probably like that better given he was most likely about to get yelled at. 

“Stiles!” 

He could do this. He could put the facade back on. He could manage this pain until he was back behind his locked door. It was fine, he was good at this, he could do it. 

His entire upper body screamed in protest when he shifted to roll onto his side and push himself up. He plastered a smile on his face to hide the increasingly large amount of pain he was in, and turned just as Scott reached him, face pinched with worry. 

“I’m good, Scotty,” he insisted, waving one hand dismissively. He knew no one would hear the lie, Stiles had tricked himself into believing everything was always fine a long time ago to the point where even _he_ believed the lie. That meant his body didn’t betray him anymore. 

It hadn’t betrayed him for years. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah man.” Stiles punched him lightly in the shoulder, his chest still tight and _hurting_ , and his back aching, but he just kept the smile on his face and looked around. “Did we win? I got thrown back a ways, kind of missed a little bit.” 

“We won,” Scott confirmed, the rest of the pack beginning to make their way towards their Alpha and his inconvenient human. Derek was leading them, practically stomping. 

Awesome. If he got yelled at, it meant he would be delayed going home, which meant he’d be delayed checking himself over for any lasting damage. He had to check for internal bleeding—not that he knew how to do that, but the internet was a thing. He could probably figure it out. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” 

Yup, there it was. The yelling. 

“Ease off,” Scott insisted, even as Derek got right in Stiles’ face, eyes flashing electric blue and fangs dropping. 

“We _told you_ to _back off_! We had it _handled_! Why can’t you just _listen_?!” 

“Did you miss the part where half of you were thrown into each other and Liam was going to die? Because I didn’t.” Stiles made a big show of motioning himself, ignoring that it was hurting his chest. He was also pretty sure his stitches had torn, and if they had, it was only a matter of time before the smell of blood hit them. He had to _go_. “And clearly, I’m _fine_. So I don’t know why you’re being so frustrating. It’s not like I got _hurt_.” 

Derek’s face did that weird dark thing he’d been sporting lately whenever he wasn’t happy, but he said nothing. He just stared at Stiles exceptionally hard while Scott checked in on the rest of his Betas and then called it a night. 

They turned to head back towards their respective vehicles, and Stiles was a little distressed to realize Derek was _right_ on his ass. He could only hold it together for so long, _especially_ with a Werewolf who seemed determined to catch him telling a lie about his health. Like he wanted to be the first to have the opportunity to yell at him. 

Not that Derek didn’t take _every_ opportunity to yell at him, but still.

They all broke off to their cars when they reached the appropriate street, Stiles nodding goodbye to the others since he didn’t trust himself to raise either arm right now in a wave. When he got behind the wheel, he took his time getting ready to leave, wanting the others to head out first. 

A lot of them seemed to be dilly-dallying, so he figured maybe it would be better for him to leave first this time. He hated leaving first, it always made him feel like he had something to hide—which he did, but he didn’t want the _others_ to think that. He really couldn’t linger any longer though, he was still struggling to breathe a little bit. 

Starting the Jeep, he managed to get one arm raised slightly so he could wave over the edge of his side window. Just enough to be seen, but not enough for it to pulse with agony, which worked out. 

He made his way back towards the heart of town from the industrial area they’d been fighting in, already starting to feel his facade slip. He held it together, because he wanted to get home first. He didn’t want to risk someone seeing him while he drove through the streets, there were still a few people out since it wasn’t late, only a little past nine. 

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he felt his heart sink when he found the Camaro right on his ass. Derek was following him, and it was _clear_ he was following him, because his home wasn’t in this direction. 

Fuck. Stiles couldn’t get delayed, he needed to check himself out. Fucking _hell_. 

“Think,” he hissed to himself. “Think, think, think.” 

He had nothing. Fuck, if he went home and Derek followed, he’d find out Stiles was hurt, yell at him for being hurt, make him feel _worse_ than he already did, and remind him for the umpteenth time that humans were such a _nuisance_ and just _so_ inconvenient. 

Hoping he could hold it together long enough to have Derek fuck off, he sighed with relief when he turned onto his street and saw the cruiser. His dad was home. If his dad was home, he could get rid of Derek more easily. This was perfect. 

Pulling into his usual parking spot, he stopped the car and cut off the engine, then climbed out. He tried to do it as normally as possible not exactly hopping out—he wasn’t fucking _stupid_ —but with enough of a pep in his step that Derek wouldn’t suspect anything. It hurt like a motherfucker, but Stiles was a champion liar so he managed to just look annoyed instead of in agony. 

“I can’t drive myself home safely, now?” he asked when Derek walked across the lawn towards the Jeep. Did he _have_ to walk across the lawn? He wasn’t helping the grass by tromping all over it with his fucking boots. 

“You need to be more careful,” Derek snapped. “You’re not—”

“My dad is home and isn’t aware of the craziness happening right now,” Stiles hissed back. “Can you maybe save the lecture for one _fucking_ night? I have a lot to do for work tomorrow, and dad’s probably waiting on me before heading to bed so...” he motioned for Derek to shoo, inhaling sharply at the pain it caused, but all Derek did was scowl. 

He didn’t even have the decency to _leave_. 

Stiles didn’t have time for this, so he just turned and headed for the front door, ignoring that Derek’s eyes followed him the entire time. When he was finally inside, he didn’t allow himself to sigh in relief, because Derek could probably still hear him. He just called to his dad that he was home and heading up for a shower, the man acknowledging him while he moved to the stairs. 

When he was behind the safety of the locked bathroom door, he allowed the facade to drop like he always did. He didn’t want to check the damage, he knew it would be bad. He also didn’t know if he should be concerned about internal bleeding, because that wasn’t something he would be able to see on his own. 

But he couldn’t go to the hospital either. Not if it meant Melissa would say something to Scott. For an injury this extreme, she’d know it was from a fight, which meant she’d tell the Alpha, and then _he’d_ tell the pack, and then it’d be all, “Stiles, you’re _so_ inconvenient, you and your humanity.” He really couldn’t handle that right now. 

Getting his shirt off was a struggle. He had to stop three times and was almost tempted to just cut the damn thing off with the scissors under the sink but decided against it. That would mean having to explain himself to his dad, so he just powered through it and finally got it off. 

He sighed when he saw splotches of red on the bandage on his left side. Great, he really _had_ torn through his stitches. Perfect. Now he’d have to re-do them. 

His eyes strayed to his chest, where he could already see dark bruising beginning to form across his torso from the violent hit. When he turned around to check his back, he could see another bruise in the shape of triangle, since he’d hit the edge of a building when he’d gotten knocked aside. Really, he was lucky he hadn’t broken any bones. 

Well, he might’ve, but he was pretty sure he’d know if he had. 

Taking a few deep breaths, Stiles found he could still breathe properly, despite the pain. He knew it would hurt, but with the ability to express his pain on his face instead of having to hide it, he forced himself to very slowly raise both arms up and down. It hurt so bad, but he managed it. His chest was tight, and his back hurt, but he was pretty sure he was okay. 

Sighing to himself, he turned back to face the mirror and then bent down to grab the First Aid kit out from under the sink. Setting it on the counter and popping it open, he washed his hands thoroughly before sitting down on the toilet lid and beginning to carefully peel off his bandage. 

The tears weren’t actually too bad, it looked like only two of his injuries had re-opened. Still, now he had to pull out the old stitches—and _boy_ was that fun!—and clean off the wounds again. He tested the others to make sure they were well and truly okay, then went about getting the items he needed out of the First Aid kit so he could very slowly and carefully stitch the wounds back up.

It felt like it took an eternity, but he knew it was probably the pain and the discomfort. His chest was tight and he was twisted at a weird angle to be able to stitch himself up on his own, so that wasn’t really helping. 

When he was done, he cleaned up around the injuries again, taped another fresh patch of gauze over it, and then put the First Aid kit away. He grabbed the duct tape and plastic garbage bag once more to cover the fresh bandage so he could shower, and almost talked himself out of it. It would hurt, and be more trouble than it was worth, but he was gross and dirty and he wanted to pass out while clean in his bed so he just decided he’d move slowly and survive somehow. 

He got to bed almost two hours later, his chest still aching and his side pulsing from the new set of stitches. 

Being human was literally the best. 

* * *

Stiles kept letting out short, aborted little breaths as he sat on the floor in his bathroom. It had been a struggle managing to get himself there when both Derek _and_ Scott had followed him home—the former to yell at him and the latter to make Derek piss off. He’d been forced to stand outside for far too long while the two Werewolves snarled at each other about Stiles as if he wasn’t standing _right there_. 

In pain. A large amount of pain. An excruciatingly large amount of pain. 

He’d held it together, though. He was getting really good at this, if he was honest. Almost a month in, more than twelve monster attacks—he’d mentioned living in Beacon Hills was great, right?—and a _lot_ of bodywash and First Aid kits later, he was still going strong on no one knowing he was getting injured. 

Hell, Mason had even commented about it the night before when they’d been hanging out having dinner with Scott and Liam. He’d mentioned how well Stiles seemed to be doing when they went out lately, because he hadn’t gotten hurt in a while. Scott had perked up like a puppy, all happy and eager and _proud_ of his human for not being an inconvenience. 

Really, Stiles deserved some kind of fucking _award_ at this point, because he had most assuredly gotten injured _many_ times and was managing to keep that secret from an entire pack of Werewolves that could sniff out blood and pain—thank you, new bodywash—as well as a certified genius in the shape of a lovely Lydia Martin. So really, he was an expert liar now. 

Hell, he could probably write a book on how to lie to Werewolves convincingly. First, buy a specific brand of bodywash. Second, convince oneself everything was always fine no matter what so that saying, “I’m fine,” doesn’t register as a lie because can’t lie about something that is a firm belief. Third, stock up on loads of First Aid kits. Fourth, invest in a good bathroom door, because his bathroom was his only safe place right now.

Derek often showed up in his room—at least he used the fucking _door_ now that he knew where the spare key was hidden—and he couldn’t escape people in general in the Jeep since they could see him through the window. His dad was home, and when he wasn’t, there was always the risk of other people showing up. 

His bathroom, on the other hand? No, his bathroom was a small room with no window in the middle of the house with a lockable door and no judgement. He could sit in the bathroom for hours, and no one would question it. Was he watching porn on his phone and jerking off? Was he taking a massive dump? Did he have constipation? Was he stitching up the millionth injury of the month in private? Who knew? No one but Stiles! 

The locked door at his back felt like a safety net for him sometimes. In the bathroom, he didn’t have to pretend. He didn’t have to smile and wave people’s words off, insist he was fine, laugh and act like everything was okay. In the bathroom, he was allowed to sit on the floor, his expression tight, and his body falling apart on him. 

Tonight had been... not great. At all. He hadn’t gotten any new injuries that required stitches—thank God, he was starting to really hate taping garbage bags to his skin for showers—but the injury he _had_ gotten wasn’t exactly great. 

He supposed he should be grateful he didn’t have any broken bones. Really, the amount of injuries he’d received over the past month that _didn’t_ include broken bones was just—astronomical. Easier to hide an injury that didn’t require a hospital visit. Stiles wasn’t stupid, he _would_ go to the hospital if he needed a cast, but anything else, he could just... deal with on his own. 

Like this. Google had told him he could do this on his own, so he would figure it out. It would hurt, he might black out, but if Google said it was possible, well—he knew Google wasn’t the be-all, end-all of good information, but it had come from a reliable looking website! And people on YouTube seemed to say it could be done if needed, when medical professionals weren’t around. 

If Melissa had been working instead of at home, he’d have gone to the hospital to have her do it. Something like this he could easily lie about. Like he’d fallen down the stairs or something. But if he went now, without her there, someone else would take him and they’d call his dad. And his dad would call Scott to ask about what craziness had been happening and then Scott would know, and the pack would know. 

For this specific injury, Melissa would believe his story, at least. Stiles was accident-prone and had been visiting her at the hospital long before the whole Werewolf thing had started up, so if he showed up with _this_ injury and looked sheepish while saying it was a tumble down the stairs, she’d just sigh and help him deal with it. 

Driving home had been hard, and Stiles tried to focus on that instead of on what he was about to do, because he really, really, _really_ didn’t want to do it. Like, at all. He so didn’t. He had no desire to do it. 

Turning to look at his shoulder, he winced before letting his head thunk back against the door, pain screaming through his arm. The shitty thing about this was that it wasn’t even a bad guy who’d hurt him today, it was fucking _Scott_. 

Not his fault, he’d grabbed Stiles’ arm to wrench him out of the way, but Werewolf strength was a thing and he’d pulled his arm right out of its socket. Totally dislocated his shoulder. Stiles had been forced to finish up the fight without making it obvious one arm was completely out of commission. It was his driving arm too, so that had been a fun ride home. Plus the two Werewolves who’d followed, so always a good time for him. Life was grand. 

Stiles continued with his small, aborted little puffs of air, but he really couldn’t procrastinate any longer. It had been a good thirty minutes since his shoulder had been dislocated and he really needed to pop it back into place before... well, he didn’t know. Before it was permanent or something. 

Glancing over at his phone where the instructions were, he reached up blindly for the hand towel on the counter and stuffed it into his mouth. This was going to hurt, no sense denying it, and he wanted to try and muffle himself as much as possible since his dad was asleep in his room. 

Forcing himself to breathe deeply through his nose, he looked down at the instructions again and then dutifully reached to grab his injured arm by the wrist with his other hand. He lifted it slowly, psyching himself up, and then yanked his injured arm straight as hard as he could. 

The sound that escaped him wasn’t human, but at least the towel in his mouth muffled it and he pulled his injured arm into his chest, hugging it against himself while bowing his head. His shoulder _burned_ , but he was pretty sure everything was back where it belonged. 

Google said to keep it in a sling once it was back in place, but Stiles didn’t want to move yet. Besides, he still had to shower and he was about to head to bed. He supposed what he could do was make a sling out of one of the cut up garbage bags under the sink, use that while he was in the shower to try and help his shoulder not have to support the weight of his arm.

Or whatever. 

Still, he didn’t want to move. Like, at all. He didn’t want to move again ever right now. He just wanted to sit there against the door, hugging his injured arm to his chest, and maybe cry. 

He didn’t cry, but he wanted to sometimes. This wasn’t the life he’d imagined for himself when he’d been younger. When he’d gotten out, gone to the FBI, a part of him had honestly thought maybe... he’d escaped. Maybe this wasn’t his life. 

But then, half-naked Derek running through the woods being accused of mass murder. Because of course, guy had shit luck. 

And then issues back home.

And then Scott almost dying. 

Every time he thought he got a step ahead, the Supernatural world kicked him back a few and reminded him that he was in it to the end now. Whether the end was when the Supernatural world got exposed or he died, he didn’t know, but he was well and truly in it and he was never going to get out. 

Maybe he should’ve let Peter bite him all those years ago. When he’d offered, maybe Stiles should’ve taken him up on it. All the members of their pack had started out human barring Derek and Malia, and now they weren’t. Stiles should’ve taken him up on it and he could’ve been like the others. His humanity wouldn’t have been such a fucking _burden_ to them all. 

Deciding he was done wallowing in self-pity and past mistakes, not to mention his injury wasn’t going to hurt any less in the next few hours, he finally exhaled and forced himself carefully to his feet with his good hand, the other still hugged to his chest. 

If anything else came to town in the next few days, he’d have to find a reason to bail on going out in the field. Maybe he could claim exhaustion or something, he didn’t know. He’d think of something, he was sure. 

Pushing away from the locked bathroom door, Stiles managed to force himself to get to work on creating a plastic bag sling so he could take a shower. 

He loved being human. It was just so, _so_ great. 

* * *

This was probably bad. Actually, he was fairly certain this was extremely bad. He probably should’ve admitted defeat today because his dad wasn’t home and he didn’t really want to call someone else to bring him to the hospital. 

He’d thought he was okay at first. Sure, there had been a lot of blood, but he’d managed to make it all the way home and into the safety of his bathroom behind his favourite locked door. And he’d patched himself up pretty well, if he did say so himself. He was doing pretty good, stanched the bleeding, stitched everything up, cleaned the bathroom to rid it of any evidence of his injuries. 

Everything was good. 

It wasn’t until he’d showered, the hot water hitting his skin, that he started feeling lightheaded. He’d powered through it, because he was probably just tired, but once he was done and had stepped out, he still felt a little dizzy. 

But that was fine. He could handle this. He just sat down on the toilet lid for a few moments, trying to get the room to stop spinning. It was hot because of the shower, he’d probably just gotten a little too warm. 

When the feeling started to go away, slowly but surely, he exhaled softly and carefully got to his feet. He dressed in his pyjamas much slower than he normally did, every movement making him feel lightheaded and ready to pass out. He hadn’t realized he was so tired, but he supposed it made sense. Not like he’d been getting much sleep the past few years, so it shouldn’t be surprising, honestly. 

Once he was dressed, he gave himself a few more moments alone in the bathroom to compose himself, then grabbed his phone, wallet and keys and headed for his room, shutting off the hall light on his way past. He was halfway there when another dizzy spell hit him and he grabbed at the wall for support, dropping his wallet and keys. 

He clenched his eyes shut, pressing the back of his other hand against his forehead, phone clutched in it. He was fine, everything was fine. He just needed to get to bed and get some sleep, nothing to be concerned about, just a dizzy spell. Maybe he’d lost a bit too _much_ blood. But if he was at risk of dying from blood loss, he wouldn’t still be able to stand, so he just needed to rest and he’d be fine.

Abandoning his wallet and keys, because fuck if he was going to be able to bend down for those, he managed to make it to his room, almost falling into it when he put too much weight against his ajar door. He managed to catch himself on his dresser before falling over, phone hitting the carpeted floor. 

“Stiles?” 

Oh fuck, _no_! 

He wasn’t supposed to be here today! Stiles had worked _so hard_ to make sure he wouldn’t fucking show up today! Fuck, _no_! 

Turning his head, he saw a shadowy figure in his desk chair across the room. Derek stood, eyes electric blue, and he knew he could see him. Stiles _knew_ Derek could see him perfectly, because he was a Werewolf and unlike puny, worthless, _inconvenient_ humans, _Werewolves_ had the ability to see in the dark. 

So Derek could see him, barely keeping himself standing, vision swimming and oh wow, did he need to puke right now? Stiles kind of felt like he might need to vomit. Could he make it to his bed? Maybe if Derek just helped him instead of lecturing him for _once_ in his life, he could just... make it to the bed. 

Fuck, he was tired, and everything was spinning and yeah no, he was just going to pass out right here. That sounded nice. 

“Stiles!” 

He honestly didn’t know if he hit the ground or not, because he was unconscious before he even started falling. 

* * *

Stiles honestly couldn’t remember the last time he woke up without being in pain. It was kind of a weird new experience for him, considering the past month and a half. Was he dead? If he was dead, he wouldn’t feel pain, right? So maybe he was dead.

No, probably not, he _really_ needed something to eat, his stomach felt hollow and he was pretty sure he needed to pee. Maybe. Possibly? Actually, he couldn’t tell. He definitely needed food though, and he was pretty sure dead people didn’t require nourishment. 

If they did though, he sure hoped this place had a free all-you-can-eat buffet because otherwise, that would be uncool. And borderline rude, really. 

It took a few moments for him to recognize the smell, and the noise. There was some hustle and bustle outside, a PA system paging people, and he was pretty sure... yeah, that was definitely a heart rate monitor. That meant he wasn’t dead, he was in the hospital, which was just _awesome_. Perfect. Wonderful, even. 

Fuck.

He heard someone shift by his bed, and before he could open his eyes and turn to see if it was his dad, he felt someone’s hand brushing through his hair lightly. It was much too small and slender to be his dad’s hand, so he knew it wasn’t him. It took a few seconds to convince his eyes to open, but eventually they did, vision still a little foggy while he struggled to focus on the person sitting beside him.

Melissa was smiling at him, sitting in a chair at the edge of his bed, fingers sliding comfortingly through his hair. 

“Welcome back,” she said softly. “You gonna stay with me this time?” 

“What?” he asked, mouth dry. 

“He speaks,” she said with a small smile. “Guess that’s a yes to staying with me. Water?” 

He grunted and she shifted back slightly, then raised his bed for him. He felt surprisingly good, but not drugged up. He had an IV taped to the back of one hand, but he really didn’t feel like it was the reason behind how _not_ in pain he felt. 

He let Melissa help him drink some water, the nurse controlling how much of it he had and how quickly. He supposed that made sense, though he wanted to down an entire fucking gallon of the stuff with how dry his throat felt. 

“I made your dad go home,” she said when she’d set the glass back down, taking a seat once more. “I wasn’t on shift, so I promised I’d stay with you while he took a shower and got a bit of sleep. He hasn’t left since you were brought in.” 

Brought in? Oh right. Derek. Great. The pack probably knew and were now bitching about their dumb, inconvenient _human_ being a nuisance. Awesome.

“People are going to have a lot of questions for you,” Melissa said quietly, having returned to brushing hair off his forehead. Stiles closed his eyes, because if he tried hard enough, he could pretend it was his mother. He’d forgotten how good it felt to be comforted by a mother, and he wanted to live in that delusional state for just a _little_ while. “You have a lot of injuries, Stiles. I wasn’t here when Derek practically threatened half the hospital into getting you treated immediately, so they saw everything. Including all the botched sutures you appear to have given yourself.” 

“I did okay,” he insisted softly, eyes still closed. 

She clearly didn’t agree because silence followed for a long while before she finally said, “Stiles, what were you thinking?” 

“I was thinking I wasn’t going to be a burden anymore,” he replied, opening his eyes. “I was thinking I didn’t want people to keep looking at me like the annoying human who always gets hurt.” 

Melissa gave him a look. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” 

“They always act like I’m an inconvenience,” Stiles insisted, feeling his chest beginning to ache. He figured that was a kind of hurt morphine or whatever couldn’t soothe. “I get hurt and they react like I’m a nuisance or a burden. I figured this was better.” 

“You figured dying was better?” Melissa asked, unimpressed. 

“I wasn’t dying.” 

“You lost enough blood to require multiple transfusions, two of your injuries were infected, and your shoulder is probably going to need surgery from whatever stupid thing you did trying to fix it.” 

Oh. Whoops. 

Melissa sighed, but she didn’t stop running her fingers through his hair. “Stiles, Derek was a mess when he brought you in. He and Scott got into a fight in the waiting room and were escorted out of the hospital because they were blaming each other for not noticing how injured you were. Lydia’s come by virtually every moment she’s been able to between work and sleep, Malia’s camped out in the waiting room because she’s not allowed in here, and the only reason you’re not feeling any pain right now is because the Werewolves keep sneaking in to steal it from you hoping you’re going to heal faster if they help your body rest.” 

Stiles stared at her. “What?” 

“You’re not a burden to them, Stiles. They care about you.” She pulled her hand back enough so she could flick him in the forehead lightly. “So does your father, by the way. Who’s been an absolute _wreck_ the past three days.” 

Three days?! Fuck, that meant he could probably pee right now, because he was sure he had a catheter, great. 

“And me,” Melissa added, giving him a look. “In case you were wondering. Expect a very stern lecture once you’re well enough for it, because I’m not impressed. The next time you try something this stupid again, you’ll wish you were face to face with a monster, because I guarantee you they are _not_ as scary as an angry mother.” 

Stiles managed a half smile. “Noted.” 

She nodded once, and he could tell how upset she was. He felt guilty for not having considered how bad this was going to be by pretending he was fine. His dad... he hadn’t even really thought about how he’d feel not being told. All he’d been thinking was his dad telling Scott, but he hadn’t considered how his dad would feel knowing how injured he was. 

And he hadn’t even thought about Melissa at all. But the fact that she was here, looking exhausted and worried... it made him feel bad. 

“I’m sorry.” Honestly, fuck the Werewolves. If they hated having a human around so much, they could just kick him out of the pack. He should’ve stayed with the FBI. 

“I know,” Melissa said quietly. “Don’t do it again. Next time you’re hurt, you _call_ me. I don’t care what I’m doing or what time it is. Don’t sit in your bathroom and stitch yourself up, you’re terrible at sewing.” 

Stiles managed a small laugh, closing his eyes again. He apologized once more, but she just told him to get some more rest and he fell asleep with her fingers sliding through his hair. 

When he woke up again, the room was a bit brighter, and his dad’s jacket was hanging off the chair beside his bed that Melissa had previously been occupying. Stiles figured he must’ve gone to get some coffee or something, and that was when he realized someone was holding his hand. 

Turning his head the other way, he froze when he saw it was Derek. 

The Werewolf wasn’t looking at him, he was just glaring down at his hand, clutching Stiles’. He noticed the usual black lines of pain slowly rising up Derek’s hand and wrist, suggesting that was why his father had stepped out. Derek was stealing his pain right now, so the sheriff was taking a second to himself. 

Stiles didn’t even know what to tell him right now. He wanted to thank him for bringing him to the hospital, but that seemed like a stupid thing to say. Even if Stiles’ worst enemy had passed out in front of him, he’d have brought him to the hospital, so Derek bringing him wasn’t something to say thank you for. 

Well, yes, it was, but... He just didn’t really know how to talk to him. Things had gotten so fucked up ever since they’d come back. They’d been friends, _good_ friends, back before their return. He almost liked to think they might’ve been moving into the realm of _more_ than good friends if time had permitted it. But then they’d returned and now everything was fucked up and Derek barely even _tolerated_ him most of the time. 

So he said nothing. He just watched Derek continue to steal his pain, his thumb brushing lightly against the skin of Stiles’ hand while he did so, almost like he couldn’t help himself. 

“I got rid of your bodywash,” Derek finally said after a very long and awkward silence. “I threw it all out, and made sure it was long gone. If you ever buy it again, the entire pack will storm your house and get rid of it. It’ll just be a waste of money, so never again, understand?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles said quietly. 

The black veins began to lighten to something a bit more grey in colour before Derek finally released his hand, having pulled probably _all_ of his pain since Stiles literally didn’t feel any of it. 

It also occurred to him he wasn’t hungry anymore, even though he hadn’t eaten. He figured one of the many tubes connected to him was helping on that front, but he definitely wanted to grab like, a sandwich or something. Get _real_ food in him before long.

“Melissa told us what you said,” Derek admitted. Stiles didn’t look up at him, keeping his gaze focussed on the Werewolf’s left hand at his side, but he could feel Derek’s eyes burning a hole through his skull. “She said that you were stupid enough to think we all believed you were an inconvenience.” 

“I’m pretty fragile,” Stiles said, unable to stop the slight sneer when he spoke the words. “I know how annoying it is having a human always in pain around you.” 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Derek informed him coldly. “Did it ever occur to you that the only reason any of us got _mad_ or _frustrated_ or _annoyed_ was because we were fucking _worried_ about you?” 

Wait, what? 

“Every time you ran into the fray without a second’s hesitation, I chewed you out because you have to be _careful_. It’s not that I think you’re weak, because you’re not. You’re the strongest person I know, but you’re not _like_ us. You can’t break a bone and heal it in a matter of hours. You can’t get shot in the chest, or have a pipe go through your stomach, or your spine broken without consequences. _We_ can, _you_ can't. So when you run in half-assed thinking you’re helping, all you’re really doing is scaring the _shit_ out of us. Out of me, out of Malia, out of _Scott_. You keep running head-first into danger like your life is meaningless. So yeah, I yell at you. Yeah, Scott gets annoyed with you. Yes, the pack bitches at you. Because you might be a badass of a human, but you _are_ still human, and we _care_.” 

Stiles was still staring at Derek’s hand. He’d clenched it into a fist, and it looked like he wanted to cross his arms, but was refraining because he could tell that Stiles was staring at it. 

He appreciated that. 

“Liam and Mason and Scott all hate it when you bitch and whine about being injured _not_ because it’s annoying, but because they don’t like knowing you’re hurting because of them. Every time you complain about an injury, it’s a reminder that you got _hurt_. Why do you think we always steal your pain? It’s not because you whine or are generally annoying about your injuries, it’s because we want to _help_ you! Because we care about you. We fucking _care_ about you, Stiles! We care _so much_ , so why the _fuck_ can’t you care about yourself, too?!” 

Stiles winced when Derek’s voice started getting progressively louder by the end, because he could tell he was getting mad again. But... not mad at Stiles for being human. For getting injured. For being inconvenient.

He was mad at Stiles for not caring about himself as much as he cared about the others. He was mad that the pack cared more about his well-being than _he_ did. 

“Do you know why I came back?” Derek asked quietly, seeming to have reined in some of his anger, but only so he wasn’t yelling. “I know you, Stiles. The second you said you were coming back, I knew what that meant. You’d go back to throwing yourself head-first into danger. You’d be reckless, and careless, and _stupid_. And I told myself it was fine. If you wanted to be an idiot and come back here and let this be your life, it was none of my business. But the problem is, I _care_ , Stiles. I lasted two weeks before realizing if I didn’t come back, you would probably fucking _die_. So I packed up, drove across a few State lines, and came back to this shithole. For you. Not for them, for _you_!” 

Stiles let out a small exhale, but he still couldn’t look up at him. Because now he felt like shit. Because not only had Derek missed out on moving on with his life because Stiles couldn’t let things go, but he’d basically spat in Derek’s face by not admitting when he was injured because Derek’s _entire purpose_ of coming back here was to make sure he didn’t get himself _killed_. 

It explained why he followed him home and broke in all the time, at any rate. 

The door opened and Stiles’ head whipped towards it, because thank _God_ , a safer target.

Only it wasn’t safer. Because it was his dad, and he looked _wrecked_. He looked like he’d aged thirty years in the past few days, and when his eyes caught sight of Stiles, eyes open and head turned in his direction, he practically _sagged_. 

He looked relieved, but exhausted. Just... completely done. 

Stiles felt guilt clawing at his stomach again and figured staring at the ceiling was the safer option, so he did that. 

“You yell at him yet?” the sheriff asked while shutting the door, clearly speaking to Derek as he walked back to the chair beside the bed and took a seat in it. 

“Not really.” 

“Well, there’s still time for that. We can always handcuff him to a chair and take turns yelling at him for being so stupid.” 

Stiles deserved that. Yes he did. Because looking back, probably should’ve at least told his _dad_. 

“Have you figured out how we’re going to deal with the doctors?” Derek asked. 

“Parrish’ll be the one to take his statement. Still trying to work through the specifics of what he should be saying, but we’ve got time so long as they don’t know he’s lucid yet.” 

Right. Melissa had mentioned that people had a lot of questions. 

“Underground fight club?” Stiles offered. 

“Illegal,” his father reminded him. 

Stiles shrugged. “Maybe I really needed the money.” 

“We’ll figure something out,” Derek promised. “Did you want me to head out?” 

“No, stay.” The sheriff waved one hand. “Help me remind my son that if he ever does this to any of us again, he’ll regret it.” 

Stiles was starting to think he was going to get a lot of threats the next few days, on top of _more_ than a few lectures. He was most scared of the one coming from Melissa, if he was honest. He’d seen her argue with the school principal on Scott’s behalf once, and mothers were _scary_.

Derek sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the bed, scooting forward a little bit and reaching out to grip at Stiles’ forearm. He didn’t steal any of his pain, because he didn’t have any left to steal, but his thumb was rubbing lightly against his skin again. 

His dad took his other hand, squeezing it tightly, and then the two men started speaking to each other, trying to come up with an explanation for Stiles’ injuries to avoid suspicion all the while reminding Stiles he was not allowed to go out monster hunting for the next probably ten years. 

The more he listened, the tighter his chest got, and his eyes burned because interspersed with their discussions of how to deal with the situation, he could tell how much they _cared_. How _upset_ everyone was, and how badly the pack wished they’d made him realize his humanity had never been an inconvenience, but his recklessness had always been a huge source of stress for them. 

He may not have been behind a locked door anymore, but after a few minutes, Stiles felt his facade drop and he pulled himself free from his dad’s grip so he could cover his eyes with one hand, feeling tears forming. 

Derek squeezed his forearm tightly, comfortingly, and his dad shifted his hand up to his shoulder, doing the same. 

They didn’t say anything about it while Stiles cried, but they both kept firm grips on him to remind him they were right there, and they weren’t going anywhere. No matter how hard he tried to push them away. 

Because he wasn’t an inconvenience, and he never had been, so maybe when he was better and everyone got their fill of yelling at him for his stupidity they could actually sit down and have honest conversations and try and sort through all their shit. 

He really wanted to fix his relationship with Derek, at any rate. And at least now, knowing what he did, he felt like maybe this was salvageable after all. 

Maybe he didn’t have to keep everything locked away behind a door like he thought he did. 

It would be really, really nice not having to hide behind a facade anymore. 

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Teen Wolf (c) Jeff Davis 
> 
> Come chill with me on [Tumblr](https://isthatbloodonhisshirt.tumblr.com/).


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